I've Got Your Number
Page 13
“Wyatt. Poppy Wyatt.”
“Well, enough kidding around, Poppy. I’m sorry about your ring. I hope it turns up. But this phone isn’t some fun accessory you can purloin for your own ends. This is a company phone with business messages coming in all the time. Emails. Important stuff. My PA runs my life. I need those messages.”
“I’ll forward them.” I hastily cut him off. “I’ll forward everything. How about that?”
“What the—” He mutters something under his breath. “OK. You win. I’ll buy you a new phone. Give me your address, I’ll bike it over—”
“I need this one,” I say stubbornly. “I need this number.”
“For Christ’s—”
“My plan can work!” My words tumble out in a rush. “Everything that comes in, I’ll send to you straightaway. You won’t know the difference! I mean, you’d have to do that anyway, wouldn’t you? If you’ve lost your PA, then what good is a PA’s phone? This way is better. Plus you owe me one for stopping Mr. Yamasaki,” I can’t help pointing out. “You just said so yourself.”
“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it—”
“You won’t miss anything, I promise!” I cut off his irritable snarl. “I’ll forward every single message. Look, I’ll show you, just give me two secs … ”
I ring off, scroll down all the messages that have arrived in the phone since this morning, and quickly forward them one by one to Sam’s mobile number. My fingers are working like lightning.
Text from Vicks Myers : forwarded. Text from Sir Nicholas Murray : forwarded. It’s a matter of seconds to forward them all on. And the emails can all go to [email protected].
Email from HR Department : forwarded. Email from Tania Phelps : forwarded. Email from Dad —
I hesitate a moment. I need to be careful here. Is this Violet’s dad or Sam’s dad? The name at the top of the email is [email protected], which doesn’t really help.
Telling myself it’s all in a good cause, I scroll down to have a quick look.
Dear Sam,
It’s been a long time. I think of you often, wondering what you’re up to, and would love to chat sometime. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow.
If you are ever in the neighborhood, you know you can always stop by. There is a little matter I’d like to raise with you—quite exciting, actually—but as I say, no hurry.
Yours ever,
Dad
As I get to the end I feel a bit shocked. I know this guy is a stranger and this is none of my business. But honestly. You’d think he could reply to his own father’s phone messages. How hard is it to spare half an hour for a chat? And his dad sounds so sweet and humble. Poor old man, having to email his own son’s PA. I feel like replying to him myself. I feel like visiting him, in his little cottage.21
Anyway. Whatever. Not my life. I press forward and the email goes zooming off, with all the others. A moment later Beyoncé starts singing. It’s Sam again.
“When exactly did Sir Nicholas Murray text Violet?” he says abruptly.
“Er … ” I peer at the phone. “About four hours ago.” The first few words of the text are displayed on the screen, so there’s no great harm in clicking on it and reading the rest, is there? Not that it’s very interesting.
Violet, please ask Sam to call me. His phone is switched off. Best, Nicholas.
“Shit. Shit. ” Sam’s silent for a moment. “OK, if he texts again, you let me know straightaway, OK? Ring me.”
I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring him ?” Then I close it again. No, Poppy. Bad idea.
“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”
“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.
“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”
For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?
“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my inbox,” he says grouchily, almost to himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them—”
“Well, enough kidding around, Poppy. I’m sorry about your ring. I hope it turns up. But this phone isn’t some fun accessory you can purloin for your own ends. This is a company phone with business messages coming in all the time. Emails. Important stuff. My PA runs my life. I need those messages.”
“I’ll forward them.” I hastily cut him off. “I’ll forward everything. How about that?”
“What the—” He mutters something under his breath. “OK. You win. I’ll buy you a new phone. Give me your address, I’ll bike it over—”
“I need this one,” I say stubbornly. “I need this number.”
“For Christ’s—”
“My plan can work!” My words tumble out in a rush. “Everything that comes in, I’ll send to you straightaway. You won’t know the difference! I mean, you’d have to do that anyway, wouldn’t you? If you’ve lost your PA, then what good is a PA’s phone? This way is better. Plus you owe me one for stopping Mr. Yamasaki,” I can’t help pointing out. “You just said so yourself.”
“That isn’t what I meant, and you know it—”
“You won’t miss anything, I promise!” I cut off his irritable snarl. “I’ll forward every single message. Look, I’ll show you, just give me two secs … ”
I ring off, scroll down all the messages that have arrived in the phone since this morning, and quickly forward them one by one to Sam’s mobile number. My fingers are working like lightning.
Text from Vicks Myers : forwarded. Text from Sir Nicholas Murray : forwarded. It’s a matter of seconds to forward them all on. And the emails can all go to [email protected].
Email from HR Department : forwarded. Email from Tania Phelps : forwarded. Email from Dad —
I hesitate a moment. I need to be careful here. Is this Violet’s dad or Sam’s dad? The name at the top of the email is [email protected], which doesn’t really help.
Telling myself it’s all in a good cause, I scroll down to have a quick look.
Dear Sam,
It’s been a long time. I think of you often, wondering what you’re up to, and would love to chat sometime. Did you ever get any of my phone messages? Don’t worry, I know you’re a busy fellow.
If you are ever in the neighborhood, you know you can always stop by. There is a little matter I’d like to raise with you—quite exciting, actually—but as I say, no hurry.
Yours ever,
Dad
As I get to the end I feel a bit shocked. I know this guy is a stranger and this is none of my business. But honestly. You’d think he could reply to his own father’s phone messages. How hard is it to spare half an hour for a chat? And his dad sounds so sweet and humble. Poor old man, having to email his own son’s PA. I feel like replying to him myself. I feel like visiting him, in his little cottage.21
Anyway. Whatever. Not my life. I press forward and the email goes zooming off, with all the others. A moment later Beyoncé starts singing. It’s Sam again.
“When exactly did Sir Nicholas Murray text Violet?” he says abruptly.
“Er … ” I peer at the phone. “About four hours ago.” The first few words of the text are displayed on the screen, so there’s no great harm in clicking on it and reading the rest, is there? Not that it’s very interesting.
Violet, please ask Sam to call me. His phone is switched off. Best, Nicholas.
“Shit. Shit. ” Sam’s silent for a moment. “OK, if he texts again, you let me know straightaway, OK? Ring me.”
I open my mouth automatically to say, “What about your dad? Why don’t you ever ring him ?” Then I close it again. No, Poppy. Bad idea.
“Ooh, there was a phone message earlier,” I say, suddenly remembering. “About liposuction or something, I think. That wasn’t for you?”
“Liposuction?” he echoes incredulously. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He doesn’t need to sound so scoffing. I was only asking. It must have been for Violet. Not that she’s likely to need liposuction, if she’s off modeling.
“So … we’re on? We have a deal?”
For a while he doesn’t reply, and I have an image of him glowering at his cell phone. I don’t exactly get the feeling he’s relishing this arrangement. But then, what choice does he have?
“I’ll get the PA email address transferred back to my inbox,” he says grouchily, almost to himself. “I’ll speak to the tech guys tomorrow. But the texts will keep coming to you. If I miss any of them—”
